Leverage in Death: An Eve Dallas Novel (In Death #47)(103)

“Fucker had the place wired, top to bottom, inside out and sideways. We got them all. The one that detonated was on a timer. Looks like he piled every electronic device in the place onto the third floor, set his charges. That’s where he had his workshop, so a lot of that’s gone. He built the vests up there.”

Despite the wind, Salazar, baking in her protective suit, swiped at sweat. “Looks to me like he cleared out all the way—empty safe, not a stray sock left in the bedroom closet. I’m going to say he took some toys with him. We’ll go through what’s left.”

“Thanks. Feeney, take a look at what he blew up, see if you can salvage anything.”

“That’ll be a trick,” Salazar commented. “The wreckage is on the second floor now seeing as the boom blew a hole in the floor of the third.”

Eve stepped into a white-walled, narrow foyer. “Find out who owns the property,” she told Roarke.

“Iler bought it about a year ago. I already checked,” he said when she gave him a glance. “He’s claimed a loss on his taxes for maintenance and repair, with a rental income of two hundred a month. That’s so far below market for this sort of property in this neighborhood to be laughable.”

She moved into the living area. “So he bought the place so Silverman would have a place to stay, charged a minimal rent so the tax guys wouldn’t poke in too deep.”

“Precisely.”

She studied the space—the same white walls, unadorned. Floors that could have used some work, riot bars on the windows.

“He didn’t spend much time down here,” she noted. “Two ratty chairs, an old table, no screen, no stuff, but a lot of dust.

She continued through—empty dining area, empty sitting area, a kitchen and powder room that showed no signs of regular use.

Still, she’d send the sweepers through every inch.

They climbed the stairs to the second floor. The ceiling of a bedroom gaped open, a hole with about a six-foot diameter. Fire suppressant dripped from the edges. The charred rubble, stinking of smoke and fried wiring, lay in piles on the floor.

Feeney in his shit-brown coat, Callendar in her boldly striped one stood in identical poses—hands on hips—and frowned.

“Got our work cut out for us, Cap.”

“We get anything out of this shit pile, we’ll be miracle workers.”

As Eve watched, they looked over at each other, grinned.

“Does that mean you’re going to work miracles?” Eve asked.

“It ain’t going to be easy, and it ain’t going to be quick. But you never know till you know. You feeling lucky, Callendar?”

“I’m an e-dick, Captain. I wake up feeling lucky every freaking morning.”

“Use your lucky feet to walk down to the van, get our toys and tools. We’ll scan this shit pile in place before we call in some boys to haul it to the lab.”

He looked back at Eve when Callendar bounced out. “Not quick,” he repeated. “Not easy. It’s fried, blown to hell and got suppressant clogging over that. Could use you,” he said to Roarke.

“Right now he’s Peabody.” Eve looked down at the shit pile, shook her head. “Do what you can.”

Of the remaining two bedrooms, only the master had furnishings.

“The sergeant kept things squared away in his personal space,” she noted as she walked through with Roarke. “Bed’s made—military precision there.” She drew out the drawer of the single nightstand. “If he kept anything in here, he took it.”

She opened the footlocker he’d used in lieu of a dresser. “Same here.”

“Bathroom’s scrubbed to a gleam,” Roarke told her. “Some cleaning supplies in the vanity, a couple of towels, bar soap in the shower, and nothing else.”

“I’d say he kept a kit for toiletries, shaving, that kind of thing. Salazar’s not wrong about the closet,” she said as Roarke joined her. “Bet your fine ass he had a go-bag, so he grabbed it, whatever else he wanted, cleared out the safe. Smart, smart not to leave so much as a stray sock behind. But we’ll find prints, hair. He didn’t have time to wipe the place down.”

“Going by the furnishings, or lack thereof, he likely had few possessions.”

“Sleep, shower, dress.” Eve circled the room. “Plot, plan, be ready to bug out. What kind of towels?”

Roarke smiled at her. “Organic cotton.”

“Bed linens, too. So he learned to appreciate the finer things.”

She walked out, and up.

Smoke and fire suppressant still stung the air on the third level. She could look through the hole in the floor to where Feeney circled the pile of rubble as he waited for Callendar. Black streaked the white walls, and flying shrapnel had punched some holes in them.

“This is his lair, this is where he lived.” She stepped up to the remnants of a workbench, crouched. “A solid one, a damn good one. Like organic cotton. Couldn’t take this—or those vices that blew off and into walls. Got most of the tools and supplies though. Some still here—that’s for Salazar.”

“He built his bombs here,” Roarke agreed. “And lived with them. The big wall screen, the good leather sofa and chair—or what’s left of them now. That was once a high-end AC and friggie.”